


We Never Talk

by PierceTheFade



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 03:30:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9697667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PierceTheFade/pseuds/PierceTheFade
Summary: Baz's potential immortality is something Simon and Baz never talk about.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. This is something I wrote a long time ago, but never posted here. Hope you guys like it <3

They never talk about it.

They never talk about the fact that Baz was a vampire that maybe-possibly-could-be immortal. They never talk about how the years would slowly catch up to Simon, leaving him wrinkled and gray, while Baz would stand there by his side, not a single thing changed. Then, at one point, the only thing leaving him would be Simon.

Baz knows that Simon thinks about it. Whenever Simon thinks Baz isn’t looking (he’s always looking) he knows he stares at him. At those times, his eyes aren’t filled with happiness and slightly suspicion (because even when they’re dating, Baz is still plotting). No, they’re filled with sadness and unease about the future that they may or may not have. Baz knows he should say something because he knows that Simon won’t, but he doesn’t want to either (Merlin and Morgana he doesn’t think he even _could_ do it). So he stays quiet and pretends not to notice Simon’s wistful stares.

Baz doesn’t talk about it.

Simon knows that Baz thinks about it. He can tell by the distant look in Baz’s eyes whenever he slips up and talks about the future, even if it’s some little thing that would seem frivolous at any other time. He knows it weighs heavily on him when he wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of Baz’s muffled whimpers. Baz is always turned away from him, and his body trembles as he tries to supress his muscle jerks. Simon doesn’t say a word, he simply wraps himself tighter around Baz and presses his forehead against Baz’s broad back. He’ll brush his lips against Baz’s damp neck, tasting the salt against his lips and waiting until Baz turns around to bury his face into Simon’s chest. He doesn’t force Baz to look at him – he waits until he’s ready. Even if it takes hours of softly cooing into the shell of his ear. He never stops until Baz’s cries turn into soft snores, and if they don’t, he stays awake with him, silently stroking Baz’s jet black hair and whispering sweet nothings to his sweet everything. He doesn’t need to ask about what it’s about. There are only two things in the entire world that turn Baz into such a wreck, but Simon knows what it is that keeps Baz awake when he feels Baz’s hands clutch desperately at Simon and he’s mumbling deliriously into Simon’s chest how much he loves him and how much he always will.

Simon doesn’t talk about it.

It goes on like this; neither of them talking about it, but both thinking about it (and _knowing_ that they each think about it). They stay quiet as the years go by.

It’s five years later when Baz notices that Simon’s face has gotten more rugged, and that there’s a distinct sense of maturity that comes with being in your mid-twenties. Simon notices Baz noticing. He also notices how Baz has hardly changed. He decides to ignore it. They’re still young. They don’t need to bring it up.

It’s ten years later when the first sign of wrinkles begins to form at the corners of Simon’s eyes. Simon thinks he can see some forming between Baz’s eyebrows. He wonders if it’s from all of the scowling and sneering he did in Watford (he still does it). Baz becomes obsessed with looking in the mirror, studying his face each day for some sight that he was aging, some sign that he wasn’t going to be left behind one day. Sometimes, Simon wakes up in the morning a bit earlier than usual and he’ll catch a glimpse of Baz in the washroom with his face practically pressed up to the mirror. Simon knows what he’s looking for, but instead of pretending to not notice, he gets out of bed wraps his arms around Baz from behind and makes some cheesy line about Baz’s face being “too perfect for this world”. Maybe it’s one of the reasons it may not want to let it go.

It’s twenty years later when Baz is sitting idly at the kitchen table with his notebook open in front of him. Simon’s in the shower and he’s biting at the eraser of his pencil, struggling to find the right words to convey the thoughts and feelings he never let himself actually say. He frowns at the last line he writes and crumples up the paper into a little ball with a curse. His mind is a mess and he runs his hands roughly through his hair and winces at the sting of pulling out a few hairs. He clutches the black strands in his hand, feeling his chest tighten when he remembers how Simon had found his first gray hair the week before. He wants to scream and cry until he’s hoarse about how unfair it is. He wants to smash everything around him until his fists are a bloody, mangles mess of torn flesh and bruised knuckles.

He waves his hand, trying to free the loose strands from his fingers and muttering an irritated curse when he feels one pesky strand refuse to leave. He narrowed his eyes at his hand and his breath catches at what he sees. Caught between his fingertips isn’t a strand of sleek, black hair like he had expected, but a shiny, silver one. His throat tightens and the chair he’s sitting in tumbles loudly against the kitchen floor as he stands abruptly. It’s that moment when Simon walks into the room, his eyebrow raised questionably at the sudden loud noise and the uncharacteristically broad smile on his husband’s face. Baz smiles at Simon with watery eyes, a softness in his eyes that Simon hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Simon.” Is all he says as he holds up the gray hair, his fingers pinching it between them so gently, as if it was some prized possession. Simon tilts his head in confusion when his eyes suddenly widen in understanding. He’s across the room in seconds, pulling Baz into his arms and crushing him against him. They’re both shaking as Baz’s arms wrap around his shoulders. They clutch desperately to each other, fuelling their embrace with all of the unspoken words and (somewhat) unshed tears.

They don’t talk about it, but for once it’s a good thing. 


End file.
